


carnival games

by peleliu



Category: BioShock Infinite
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-28
Updated: 2014-04-28
Packaged: 2018-01-21 02:59:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1535042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peleliu/pseuds/peleliu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Howdy, sailor. What port do you call home? Any port in a storm... you know what I mean."</p>
            </blockquote>





	carnival games

**Author's Note:**

> so you know how at the beginning of the game how booker gets cat-called by half the population of columbia and one of those people happens to be a dude chilling out at the carnival? that was very brave good sir here is a fic about that brave good sir. if you never found him that's... that's actually his quote i suggest you go back to the damn fair LMAO.  
> in my first run the dude was blonde and in my second run he had a mustache and was wearing a dumb hat so. uh. guess he's kind of... ambient generated. go figure. anyway i arbitrarily gave him a name and then this happened.  
> i have no excuse.  
> p.s. ive never written smut before dont look at me thanks bye

   "Howdy, sailor. What port do you call home? Any port in a storm... you know what I mean."  

   Booker almost doesn't hear it over the din of carnival games and music, the voices of children raised in excitement and constant stream of what is, as far as he can tell, sales-pitches for magic powers. He's not been in the city of Columbia an hour and he's already rewritten his list of most bizarre experiences at least twice, so he shouldn't really be surprised, but the low-spoken call still catches him off-guard.

   It isn't the first time he's been... _complimented_ \-- he hesitates to use the word ‘propositioned’ -- in such a way since setting foot on undeniably airborne streets. Hell, the people here are almost aggressively friendly. It's the fact that the not-quite-invitation is delivered in a decidedly _masculine_ voice that brings him up short.

   Booker stops, looks, looks _again_ just to be sure, and then wonders if he hasn't completely misinterpreted the greeting. "Uh... pardon?"

   The man standing propped against the corner store wall regards him with crossed arms and the look of someone trying very hard to remain casual. He's not doing a very good job of it, not that Booker can blame him. Look he's giving the guy, poor bastard probably thinks he's about to get slugged.

   "Just a little Columbian hospitality, friend," the man says, hands lifting now in a harmless gesture. "Don't think I've seen you around before, is all."

   "I just got in," Booker says, letting none of his caution show in his voice. He's not done anything too questionable yet beyond being somewhere he's not entirely meant to, but it never hurts to be careful.

   "Thought as much," the stranger says, and casts a look over Booker that swings from his scuffed-up shoes to his wind-blown hair which he is suddenly aware could probably use more than the finger-combing he'd given it a few hours ago. "I'd've remembered seein' you before."

   Booker's eyebrows jump about the height of his hairline. He's well past surprised and maybe a little bit over the border of interested, because misinterpretation can only account for so much, but all he says is, "That so?"

   "I reckon it is," the stranger says with a very friendly sort of smile. There's something a little jittery under the confidence, a well-concealed nervousness that Booker does not miss. "I was just taking in the sights, my self," his new friend goes on, and it's again with the up-and-down look that very nearly drags a laugh from Booker for how blatant it is. "I could show you around, if you like. You bein' new and all."

   And if he's misinterpreting _that_ he's a lot more addled than he thought. Booker stares at his new friend for a good few seconds, long enough that the man starts to look legitimately nervous. Then he turns his head, casts around them, over the faces of people milling about, over the hordes of children running rampant, none of them paying any mind for the two men chatting by the fruit stand. He looks back at his new friend and the smile the man has plastered on is starting to look a little shaky, so Booker screws up his mouth and really considers it.

   He's not bad to look at. Nice smile, strong jaw, sharp brown eyes. Little shorter than Booker himself, probably a little younger, but he fills out his clothes damn well. Blonde, from what can be seen under the dumb hat he's wearing. And clearly doubting his judgment if the increasingly nervous flick of his eyes is anything to go by, so Booker shoots one more look sideways and then steps forward. When he grabs the man's wrist Blondie jumps, but all he does is tilt the other man's arm to get a look at the watch he wears.

   This time when he looks up it's the stranger that gets to be surprised, because now Booker's the one grinning, all friendly and too many teeth.

   "I got time."  
  
   As it turns out, Blondie's apartment isn't too far from the fairgrounds, and it isn't til they've made it in the building and up the stairs that Booker finally decides this isn't some ill-fated attempt at a mugging. The trip to Blondie's place had been all casual conversation and keeping up airs for whatever audience was passing by, but as soon as the apartment door swings shut behind them, Blondie is all hands.

   Booker's back hits the door and his surprised grunt is muffled by the mouth that has very suddenly found his lips, and the chuckle it earns is felt in the chest pressing up against his own. Booker fumbles for the lock while Blondie gets busy with the buttons on his shirt, and he isn't much used to being taken off guard but he finds he doesn't mind it much.

   Blondie's hands are rough on his chest and he's sagging against the door by the time his new friend breaks the kiss to instead bite at his collarbone. And he should probably stop calling the poor guy that if he's gonna keep being this friendly. "You got a name, stranger?" he asks, not quite breathless, and that's admirable because Blondie's got teeth he isn't afraid to use.

   "Russell Everett," Blondie says, mouthing a trail across the side of Booker's jaw that is nearly enough to distract him from the topic at hand. "Call me Russ if you want."

   "Good to meet you, Russell," Booker feels compelled to offer, because Blondie -- stop calling him that -- has got his earlobe between his teeth and he's a little sidetracked.

   "Just Russ," comes the correction. "What about you?" Russell asks, and then it's all mouth and teeth on that spot just under his ear and Booker almost forgets the topic.

   "Booker De-- Nngh-- Witt."

   "Booker D. Witt?" Russel's not looking up and his hands are alternating between stroking up and down Booker's sides and slipping below the line of his belt.

   "Just DeWitt," Booker corrects, head thumping back against the door.  
  
   Russell's mouth is on his throat when he says, "Good to meet you too, DeWitt."

   Booker nearly groans for more than one reason, preoccupied knocking Russell's stupid hat off and going for the buttons of his shirt. "Just-- Booker."

   Russell shoots him a brief look of confusion and this time Booker does groan, leaves the other man's shirt half undone and grabs him by the head to haul him up instead. "Screw it, c'mere."

   This time when their mouths find each other Booker isn't the only one that ends up losing the line of conversation.

   They stumble away from the door as a unit, and Booker has to give up trying to navigate when he remembers this is not his apartment and he doesn't actually know where he's steering them. He does however know that Russell has a damn clever mouth, and his reluctance to abandon this discovery makes the removal of his vest and shirt an awkward, fumbling task. He's got one arm loose when he gives up to dig a hand into Russell's hair and grunts when he's stumbled by a yank at his belt. "What--"

   "Not the couch," Russell says, adamant and absurd.  
  
   Booker's response is stalled because it's hard to talk with Russell sucking on his tongue, but he eventually offers, "Bedroom?"

   "Across the apartment," Russell mutters, and Booker dismisses that because Russell's hands are squeezing at his hips and walking that far sounds like a new kind of torture.

   "Chair?" Booker asks, trying to veer them in the direction of the plush and welcoming armchair not too far to their left, but Russell's blonde head is shaking even as he wrestles Booker's shirt the rest of the way off, abandoning it somewhere on the floor.

   "My cat sleeps there," Russell says by way of explanation, leading Booker by the belt like a leash, and Booker thinks he shouldn't be following so obediently, but what the hell. "I couldn't look her in the eye come morning."

   Booker's sound of frustration has a hint of whine in it and he casts about, attention landing on a desk in the corner, and Russell's following his line of sight even as he says, "Writing desk?"

   "It's not seeing any better use right now," Russell says, and Booker's the first to lead their graceless stumble to the bit of furniture that's just saved his day.

   Booker's hip checks the edge of the desk hard enough that he makes himself curse, and he'd like to think the sound that comes out of Russell is one of want but he can't quite convince himself it isn't a laugh.

   "That's gonna leave a mark," Russell comments, and then voices some colour of his own when Booker bites down on his shoulder through the thin material of his shirt.

   "So's that," Booker counters. "You gonna help me get my shoes off or what?"

   Now Russell _does_ laugh, but he reaches down when Booker hops backward onto the writing desk and hoists a leg up. Soon his shoes are sailing off into parts unknown and Russell's stepping up into the space between his knees, and yeah, the writing desk is gonna do just fine.

   Booker's hands find Russell's messy hair and he swallows the surprised grunt Russell voices against his mouth when Booker sees fit to hook a leg around his hips and drag him closer.

   "Not helping," Russell says, not quite a complaint, and Booker laughs low in his throat.

   "I can stop," he offers, and gets a bite to his lower lip for the trouble.

   "Wouldn't ask you to," Russell says, and then he's got his hands on Booker's hips and any response Booker might have had is lost somewhere between raking fingers and that very, very clever mouth. Russell pushes him back into the desk and the shelves dig into his spine but he doesn't mind it, just loops his arms around the other man's waist and rocks their hips together hard enough to earn a groan. Then he does it again, because it’s fun to see Russell falter so obviously.

   Booker doesn't get to enjoy his victory for very long. Even without looking Russell manages to get his belt undone with one hand and then the button on his pants is open, Russell's fingers are sliding below his waistband, and Booker makes a sound dangerously close to a yelp when anticipation is suddenly replaced by Russell's hand wrapped around him and squeezing just so. "Russell--"

   "Russ," comes the immediate correction, and Booker's laugh sounds a bit manic as his head drops back.

   "I'll call you whatever you want, you keep that up," he all but groans, hips lurching up off the desk, because he's half hard already and Russell's clearly made it a mission to see the job done right. There's another hand tugging at the waistband of his pants and Booker tries to be helpful in getting them off, but he's admittedly a little distracted, not that Russell seems to mind.

   "Might take you up on that," he's saying, and Booker makes an inarticulate sound of relief when they manage to tag-team his damn slacks off. He wants to point out how it's unfair that he's completely naked and Russell's still in possession of everything he’d walked in with save hat and vest, but Russell is also mouthing at the line of his throat and damn if his hands aren't as clever as his mouth. And there's a thought.

   Booker's hands find Russell's shoulders of their own accord, his focus darting between what the other man's hand is doing and how he should probably be trying to figure out how to ask for what he wants that _mouth_ to be doing, but then Russell stops marking up his neck and looks him in the eye and Booker's brain goes incredibly blank.

   Russell's giving him an expectant look. He's stopped moving his hand, which should by rights help Booker think, but all he wants to do is ask _why he stopped moving his hand in the first place_.

   "Been a while, huh?" Russell asks suddenly, all sympathetic, and Booker can't quite bite back the sound of offense that jumps to his throat.

   "Hey!"

   Russell laughs, his grin huge, and Booker could refuse to be placated by the lingering kiss that follows or by the pleasant way Russell's hand squeezes around him, but why bother. So he sags against the desk and lets himself be placated, because Russell's charmingly enthusiastic about soothing his wounded pride.

   "Want me to use my mouth?"

   Russell is also apparently psychic, and Booker can only blink dumbly at him for a moment, trying to recover his scattered thoughts. "Wha..."

   "Way you were fussing before, doesn't take a detective," Russell says, his shrug very casual considering he has one hand braced on the desk and the other wrapped around Booker's cock. "Want me to?"

   "Ye-- Fuck, yes," Booker grates, reminding his throat to work finally, because what the hell else is he going to do with Russell leaning over him with an offer that makes everything below where his belt used to be feel tight.

   Russell's grin is quick and triumphant, and Booker doesn't dwell on that when Russell’s head ducks to rain a descending trail of bites and licks down his chest and stomach. The desk is a little high for Russell to go to his knees, but he catches his errant chair with one blind flail of his foot and hauls it over to plant a knee on, and his mouth is hot when he exhales against Booker's navel, hot enough to make him shiver.  
  
   Booker might have expected some kind of hesitation, or a moment to collect his thoughts. He probably shouldn't have, given his experience with Russell's brand of enthusiasm thus far, but he still manages to be completely startled when Russell just shoots him a wolfish grin and then wraps his mouth around most of his damn cock. Booker's moment to collect himself amounts to a hoarse shout and the sound of the back of his skull connecting with the desk shelves, and Russell is _laughing at him_ , he can tell for very obvious reasons, and all he can do is latch onto the other man's shoulders and try to remember how to drag air into his lungs. "Fuck!"

   Russell's got a hand on his hip, and his grip isn't quite bruising but it's firm, which is probably good considering Booker has suddenly forgotten how to keep himself from squirming off the damn desk. His other hand wanders up, smoothing against Booker's side, tracking faint scars up toward his ribs and then down again. Over his hip, the juncture of his thigh, and then he's wrapping his hand around Booker's length, what he can't take into his mouth with the measured bob of his head, and Booker makes a noise that he would find embarrassing if he could even recall his own name at the moment. "Russsss--"

   Russell hums his response and it's enough to have Booker seeing stars. He's got his hands into that blonde hair at some point and he tries not to pull, or push, or do anything stupid, and ends up threading his fingers through the strands repeatedly while he mutters encouragement. Or maybe he's just cursing a blue streak; it's become difficult to keep track, but he can be sure of his ragged yell when Russell does something with his tongue that's probably illegal anywhere decent.

   There's something pleading knotted in his chest and he doesn't even know what he wants to beg for but the pressure's there, words coming half-formed with the breath that stutters out of him, hisses between his teeth. He'll deny his whimper later but not now, when Russell looks up at him, indecipherable maybe because Booker's too far gone to figure out what exactly is lurking in those dark eyes. But then Russell strokes his hip, squeezes gently in something like reassurance, and that's absurd but Booker's breath catches in his throat and then he's arching against the desk with enough force that he knows he just gave himself some bruises to discover later, but he doesn't care because Russell never stops moving, licking and sucking and stroking, holding his hips in place while Booker does his level best to wake the dead with his encouragement.

   The comedown is a little blurry. He sags against the desk and Russell's mouth works around him until he groans, too much, and then there are hands skating up his sides, leaving goosebumps in their wake, and Russell is leaning over him again. Booker decides he looks good from that angle and lets himself enjoy the view while he waits for every inch of his body to stop tingling.

   He can see the grin lurking around the corners of Russell's mouth and he exhales slowly, lets his eyes shut for a few seconds while fingers tap a jittery rhythm against either side of his ribcage. "Could get used to this... Columbian hospitality."

   Russell's laugh is close and Booker opens his eyes when that mouth finds his throat again. He doesn't bother lifting his head, riding out the languid feeling in his limbs and letting Russell's wandering hands get acquainted with every inch of skin they can reach. Touchy.

   "I'm a little friendlier than most," Russell says, voice coming from Booker's collarbone, and Booker hums a sound near a laugh. But Russell's still strung with energy, and he should probably see to that.

   His toes just touch the floor when he stretches, lets his heel thump against the desk and lifts his hands to Russell's chest. Strokes down, down, until his fingers meet fabric, and then lower still to cup between the other man's legs, and Russell lurches into his grip with a sharp inhalation that leaves him on a muffled curse.

   "So," Booker says, all casual. "How about that bed?"

   Russell's breath has gone a little ragged and he starts nodding, throat visibly working as he swallows, and Booker manages not to laugh but he does grin a little too wide and Russell groans and drops his head onto Booker's chest hard enough to knock some air out of him.

   "How do you want it?" Russell asks, and he's moving to let Booker up, or help him up, whichever, as Booker mulls it over.

   "Wouldn't mind returning the favour," Booker muses, and Russell's eyes dart to his mouth so obviously that his grin returns in a flash. "But I think I want you to do me on your bed."

   There's a pause, and he wonders if Russell was too busy thinking about him on his knees to process the suggestion, but then realization sparks, brown eyes go wide and Russell's mouth opens and closes twice in a good approximation of a landed fish. Booker doesn't bother stifling his laugh this time.

   "You-- You're--" Russell founders, and Booker catches a fist in the side when he doesn't stop laughing, ends up sputtering and punching Russell in the shoulder hard enough to make him curse. "You're sure?" Russell asks, rubbing at his shoulder, and Booker sees fit to twist his mouth up and hike one brow at the other man.

   "This isn't my first rodeo, kid," he says, incredulous, and he tries to ignore the fact that he's still sprawled out naked on the desk of a man he doesn't really know.

   Russell takes a turn pulling faces, irritation chief among the expressions that flash by. "You call me 'kid' and I'm gonna start calling _you_  'old man.'"

   Suppressing a cringe, Booker lifts his hands to push at Russell, moving to get himself on his feet. "Maybe I won't call you kid."

   "Fair enough."

   Russell leans back as Booker slides off the desk but doesn't give ground, instead lifting his hands to frame Booker's hips once they're facing each other once more. Booker lifts a brow at him in silent question, and Russell makes a show of looking down and then up again. Booker wonders if he's got some kind of patent on that move.

   "Just takin' in the view," Russell says, a theatrical sigh, and Booker snorts attractively, but his snide remark is cut off by Russell leaning up to catch him in a lingering kiss that makes Booker seriously reconsider the walk all the way to the bedroom.

   Helpfully, Russell steps away, starts backing toward a door across the room that's been left slightly ajar and Booker trails after him at arm's length, enjoying how Russell's hands linger on his arms and chest, how Russell seems to enjoy just touching him. He follows until Russell kicks the door open, then lets himself be guided around so he's walking backward toward the bed.

   Russell is kissing him again by the time his knees meet the mattress, keeps kissing him as Booker sits back, then lies back. Booker leads him across the bed that way, until he's stretched out proper, until he's found the pillows and settled comfortably, and he laces his fingers through Russell's hair as the other man kneels between his thighs, hands resting at his hips, kneading gently.

   There's a particular kind of tension pooling in his belly when Russell's hands wander down his thighs and Booker rumbles encouragement, lets his head fall back, breaking the kiss so he can look between them. Russell's breath is coming quick and Booker's mouth twists in a smirk as he reaches for the other man's belt, works the buckle while Russell watches, frozen and intent. And if Booker takes his time, drags it out, well, maybe the buckle's stuck, or maybe he likes the way Russell's just this side of trembling with anticipation. He chuckles when Russell finally voices his impatience, uses one hand to pull the belt loose of Russell's pants and tosses it aside. Button next and then Booker flattens a hand up against Russell's belly, feels the muscles jump and slides his hand beneath the fabric.

   Russell's eyes all but roll back when Booker's wandering hand finds what it's looking for, and then Russell's bracing his arms on the mattress to either side of Booker and rocking his hips, short thrusts into the circle of Booker's fist. "Haa..."

   For his part, Booker swallows down the tightness in his throat, uses the hand still in Russell's hair to tug him down for a quick press of mouths while the other man pants and shifts above him. "Russ, hey," Booker prompts, focusing himself because one of them has to and he won't be doing it for long if they carry on this way. He loosens his grip a bit and Russell hums, leaning closer. "Russ, you got somethin' for this?"

   Russell blinks down at him, falling still as he processes the question. Then he's looking between them, at Booker's hand beneath the waistband of his pants, at himself where he kneels between Booker's legs, and realization dawns in his expression. "Uh, uhm--"

   Intelligent, Booker thinks, and tries not to laugh as he withdraws his hand, as Russell fumbles and goes for the nightstand. Booker decides to be extremely helpful and hooks his thumbs into the waistband of Russell's pants while the other man struggles, tugging the fabric down and grinning as he leans up to lick at Russell's chest, and he gets cursed at for his efforts, and laughs at Russell's irritation.

   "Uhm," Russell says again, and Booker huffs against his chest, tries to drag those offending pants off but Russell isn't helping at all so Booker shoots him a look, mouth drawn.

   Russell's looking at the open nightstand drawer with a sort of looming horror and Booker coughs to get his attention, gives him an expectant look. "What?"

   "Er, hold on," Russell mutters, and then Booker's the one complaining because Russell is abandoning the bed and, by extension, Booker.

   "The hell're you goin'?" Booker doesn't quite squawk, sitting up and grabbing after the other man as he b-lines for the door.

   "I left it in my vest," Russell tosses over his shoulder, and Booker knows he's looking at the other man like he's sprouted a second head.

   "You left... Wait, you left--"

   "In my vest," Russell repeats, catching his undone pants with one hand to keep them up. It's a good look, but Booker's too busy being incredulous to enjoy it. Much.

   "You just carry that kind of shit with--" And there's a pause, because Russell's going red all the way to his blonde hair, and Booker's mouth falls open. "Were you hangin' around the carnival just looking for a hookup?"

   "You never know your luck, okay!" Russell nearly shouts, and he dives out the door to the sound of Booker's roar of laughter. When he comes back, vest clutched in one hand, Booker is still wheezing. But he is also still naked in Russell's bed, so when the other man crawls up and looms over him he does his level best to get it together. He fails, mostly, but it's the thought that counts.

   "A carnival?"

   "It's just where I ended up! And anyway, I was just doin' errands!" Russell digs into his vest and then flings it away from himself as if personally offended, but not before Booker sees the little bottle he has clutched in his hand.

   Booker drops an arm over his eyes and struggles to keep from losing it all over again. "Went to the man store and got yourself a--"

   "Shut up!"

   Russell's mouth catches his laugh and Booker lets himself be silenced, leaves his arm tossed up over his head, the other stretched out at his side, passive while Russell does a good job of shucking his embarrassment by kissing him senseless. Fair trade, he decides, and the fabric of Russell's pants rucks up when Booker rubs a thigh against his hip, reminding them both of the barrier.

   There's a gasp between them when Russell pulls away, and he reaches for the waistband of his pants at the same time Booker does. Booker's the one to push the material down over his hips, and Russell's the one to groan and grab his hand, stalling progress.

   "Shoes," Russell says, sounding pained, but when he moves as if to back up to correct the problem, Brooker just grabs him by the arm and hauls him down again. Russell's still got most of his damn clothes on even if everything's in disarray. Shirt hanging off his shoulders, pants undone and barely on. Minutes to get rid of it all.

   "Screw it," Booker says, grabbing Russell's hand where he holds the bottle and dragging it between them. "Should've taken 'em off earlier."

   Russell's eyes are a little wide, mouth a little bit open, but after a beat he lurches into motion, fumbling with the lid of the bottle while Booker tugs at his pants just enough to get them out of the way, and Russell nearly drops flat when Booker wraps a hand around his cock again. "Ahh, shit--"

   "Bottle, Russ," Booker prompts, impatience soaring after multiple interruptions, and Russell nods, holds the bottle while Booker unscrews the lid for him and then tips oil over Booker's fingers.

   Anticipation coils low in Booker's belly; a smirk tilts his mouth as he reaches between them, and Russell's breathy cry when Booker touches him this time, slick and squeezing, is enough to make them both shiver.

   Reluctance is written in every line of Russell's posture but he's the one to pull away, to sit back on his heels and get his breathing under control. Booker helps in his way, raising his arms over his head once more and stretching his back into an arch, knees drawn up in invitation.

   Russell adopts a look that implies he might choke on his own tongue. So maybe not helpful, but definitely inspiring.

   "Somebody's smilin' on me," Russell mutters, and before Booker can do anything but grin he's tilting the bottle, pouring oil into his own hand, and that's quite suddenly all Booker has eyes for. He breathes, slow and even, watches Russell's hand descend. Shivers for the slick fingers high up on his inner thigh, for the lingering touch that follows the inside joint of his hip.

   Russell's eyes dart between his hand and Booker's face, checking and rechecking. His uncertainty is sort of endearing but at this point Booker's so turned on he almost wants to roll them both over and just get on with it, so at the first dip of fingers where he really, really wants them, he tilts his hips up and noises a little encouragement.

   Russell, decent sort that he is, chooses that moment to stop cold.

   Booker wants to kick him. "Russ, goddammit--"

   "You're sure?" Russell cuts in, looking him right in the eye, and Booker is given pause if only for the span of seconds. Then he gives Russell a pointed look and reaches down to pull the other man's arm toward him.

   "You don't get a move on, I'm gonna flip you over and ride you like a damn horse," he says, voice weighted and serious, and Russell stares at him in open surprise. A moment follows where he looks a little distant, a little distracted, and then he's leaning over Booker and finally, _finally_ smoothing oil-slick fingers between his legs.

   "Got it, got it," Russell is saying, staring down at Booker with the sort of open want that makes his stomach do a flip. Then he's pressing in, one finger first, and Booker's teeth click together as his head falls back, inhales through his nose, concentrates on finding a familiar sort of calm despite the almost nervous flutters that make him twitch and nearly draw his legs together.

   Russell's got his free hand on Booker's hip, thumb drawing absent patterns on his skin, attention entirely elsewhere. It's ticklish and distracting, and Booker tilts into it just a tiny bit, wraps his hands around the cool metalwork of the headboard to anchor himself.

   Booker finds himself holding silence even as his throat works, listening to Russell's careful breathing, his own sounding unsteady. His voice slips when Russell begins to work in a second finger, and a quick look dispels brief hesitation. Russell's giving him that look again, edgy and uncertain, and Booker's hands tighten on the headboard.

   "You're not gonna hurt me," he says, only a little irritated, really, more impatient than anything. "Look, Russ, would you just--" The rest is a startled gasp, Russell crooking his fingers and pushing _up_ , and Booker breathes through his nose, eyes a little wide.

   That hand leaves his hip and Booker doesn't notice until he feels oil drip onto his lower stomach, until it's poured, slick and almost too cool, down the length of his cock. Then Russell's hand is back and Booker gives up his careful breathing and self control in favour of bucking into Russell's hand, a rasp of sound dragged from his throat for the addition of a third finger, sinking in along with that perfect, slick, stroking pressure. "Nuhh..."

   Russell's watching him, intent in a way that speaks of tenuous control. Booker shuts his eyes for the span of seconds, breathes and unwinds one hand from the headboard to reach between them, to curl his fingers around Russell's arm. The muscles stand out tight and Booker looks up to watch Russell’s throat work as he swallows.

   "Nuh-- That's good," Booker says, shaking his head to corral his thoughts, "I'm good, come on, just-- This isn't gonna last if you keep that up." He says it in a laugh because it's true, and maybe it _has_ been a while. Russell's hands still and he looks up, down again, and it’s a testament to his level of self restraint that he's held out this long.

   "Like this?" Russell asks as his hands withdraw, as Booker shudders and steadies himself. "How do you want--"

   "This is great, just like this," Booker assures, and he's pulling at Russell's arms because impatience is rearing its head again, ratcheting up his tension. "Now get over here."

   Russell does, mercifully. Grabs up the bottle and slicks himself with a sort of urgency that could make Booker wince in sympathy, but Russell doesn't seem to care, plants his hands on either side of Booker's hips and inhales once, audibly, as he studies the man beneath him.

   Booker takes him by the shoulders, urging him to move, and Russell's hands fall to rearrange them both, to pull Booker's hips up partially into his lap. Booker hooks a leg behind Russell's hips, flashes a grin fueled by nervous energy and pulls him down to catch him in a kiss. Russell's got one hand between them as a guide, the other steady on Booker's hip. A little fumble, pressure as his warning and then Russell is easing down over him, sinking into him so slow it's like torture and swallowing the groan that claws its way out of Booker's throat.

   Reflexive, Booker's arms come up around Russell's shoulders, fingers digging into his back, and he is forced to break the kiss just so he can _breathe_. His hips twist and Russell's head drops to his shoulder, face pressing into the side of his neck. There will be bruises on his back later. Booker claws his shirt up and chokes on a whimper, and Russell's hips move in strained little jerks, opening him up, _filling_ him up until he's gasping and arching into it, arching away from it.

   When their hips finally come to rest flush together Russell falls still, and for once Booker doesn't prompt him to get on with it. He's wrapped around the other man so tight, arms and legs, clutching fingers, it'd be a wonder if Russell could move at all, but he's holding himself so carefully still.

   Booker's got his eyes shut but he feels Russell swallow, feels that mouth move against the side of his neck, and then Russell exhales, long and shaky. Relaxes his hands where he's had a death grip on Booker's hips and soothes the skin with gentle pressure. "You all right, old man?"

   The noise that escapes Booker is somewhere between helpless and offended, but he pries his fingers off Russell's shoulders and forces his eyes open so he can glare properly. "Fine, _kid_."

   Russell grins, carefully rolls his hips, and they both groan, long and low. Russell's hands are wandering again, petting and stroking, and when he turns his head to mouth at the line of Booker's jaw, Booker mutters some nonsense and lets himself relax into the attention.

   "So,” Russell murmurs, his lips a rasp against Booker’s stubble, “You ride horses?"  
  
   When Booker deliberately thumps the side of his head against Russell's face, Russell just laughs and presses him into the mattress.

   Booker's hands fist in the material of Russell's shirt, and Russell kisses him when he moans, when the cautious rock of hips gains an edge of confidence that makes keeping silent impossible.

   Tactile, hands ever moving, Russell touches and strokes, distracted in his own way as he breathes hot against Booker's collarbone. It's Booker to catch his hands up, guide them down, and Russell's pace falters for only a moment before he catches on. Then his arms slide behind Booker's knees and lift, and he leans his weight forward, and Booker bends.

   Robbed of leverage, Booker wraps his arms around Russell's neck and groans, tries to twist up and can't, and Russell offers to let him but he shakes his head and bites at the shoulder nearest him instead. Russell doesn't ask, accepts control where Booker gives it up, bears down and says nothing when Booker muffles every broken moan and whimper with teeth dug into his shoulder.

   Russell’s muttering against the side of his neck, constant and nearly inaudible, like he can’t quite keep himself silent. Booker picks out only the occasional word, barely listening. Nonsense, cursing, praise. Booker's hand drifts between them, jaw flexing when he touches himself, and Russell shudders hard against the bite, curls over him in a way that further limits movement.

   Russell's weight pins him effectively, bent double, body aching protest for the strain, every rock of hips against his pulling some muffled sound from him even as he tries for quiet. His hand moves in time with the pace Russell has set, not gentle but slow, so thick and heavy inside him that it leaves him dazed.

   Russell mouths at his neck, down over his pulse and lower. Booker aches, forces his teeth apart to ask for more, harder, if he could just get a little more, but it’s babbled nonsense, falls apart to Russell’s name gasped over and over. Hands beneath his lower back drag his hips a fraction higher, change the angle, force his legs up over Russell’s shoulders. Russell’s got his weight behind every drive of his hips now and Booker claws up handfuls of his shirt just to give himself something to hold onto, makes a sound like a sob, deaf to whatever words Russell is breathing against his throat.

   Then Russell bites down where his neck meets his shoulder, sudden bruising sting, and Booker's back snaps into an arch that lifts them both off the bed. It _hurts_ , and Booker isn't sure he's ever come so hard in his life.

   Russell holds him down, deliberate or not, something frantic in his pace as Booker twists beneath him. And it's too much now, but Booker holds on to him, shaking apart, and when Russell shouts and goes stiff above him Booker bites down on his lip and makes a sound like agony even as his fingers dig into Russell's lower back, pulling him close, pulling him _in_ , keeping him there.

   When Russell's strength gives out, Booker takes his weight with no complaint beyond a grunt, too far gone himself to expect better of the other man. Russell is gasping, forehead on the pillow next to Booker's head, and for a long time neither of them move or say anything, content with the slowly-calming sound of their mutual ragged breathing.

   Minutes pass before Booker’s finally able to relax his hands from their death grip on Russell’s shirt. He smoothes the fabric, slides his hands beneath it to splay his fingers against Russell’s back. Feels his breath, his pulse, the tension bleeding from his muscles. The shivers all up and down his spine are easing, but every minor shift is a reminder that Russell is still inside him, hips still pressed tight to his. Booker could ask him to move, but the inclination isn't there, so he just stares up at the ceiling without really seeing it, moves his hips a little, experimentally, and feels Russell shiver all over.   
  
   How much time passes Booker isn't sure, but eventually Russell moves, just a shift of weight, and drags Booker back to the present. Between them they get their limbs disentangled and neither comments on the groans of relief they share when Russell finally gets to stretch his back and Booker is able to get his legs on a solid surface again. Booker's muted sound of protest when Russell finally withdraws earns a chuckle, however, and he swats at the other man's arm when Russell reaches out to ruffle his already messy hair.

   Beside him, Russell collapses with all the grace of a landslide, breath leaving him on a long, loud sigh, and Booker shoots him a sidelong look. "Gonna make it?"

   "Just gimme a minute," Russell groans, and when Booker laughs he can see the other man's shoulders shaking too, though he can't see his face for Russell having it buried in a pillow.

   Booker uses the respite to work the kinks out of his back and shoulders, to finally stretch his legs out. Russell's bed feels sinfully soft beneath him and the it's unfairly tempting to crawl under the blankets and grab a few hour's sleep after his extremely eventful morning, but he can't forget he has a prior engagement. So he ignores how inviting the blankets are, exhales loudly and drags both hands through his hair.

   He should get moving, but he should also really see about getting himself cleaned up first. His clothes are... somewhere, and he's half squinting when he glances toward the bedroom door, trying to recall where he'd dropped everything. The door's still cracked open, and he's distracted enough that it takes him a beat to notice the furry face staring back at him from around the frame.

   Booker stills, lifts a brow and considers the bit of orange fluff currently regarding him with a level of disdain he's probably mostly imagining, but it's pretty convincing either way. The cat looks like it's judging him for everything from his lack of clothes to the fact that he's breathing its air, and he just manages not to snort aloud.

   "You were right," he says without bothering to look at Russell where he's sprawled out on his other side, "She _does_ look mad."

   The mattress dips when Russell moves and then he's leaning over Booker, one arm flapping in the direction of the door. "Duchess! Out!"

   The cat continues to look offended, and when a pillow sails across the room to knock the door shut it hisses and bolts, and Booker just barks a laugh and scrubs a hand over his face.

   "Sorry about that," Russell says from somewhere above him while Booker rubs at his eyes and grins. "She's touchy with company."

   Now Booker peers up at him between his fingers, mouth twitching. "So're you," he says, and it takes a second before Russell pulls a face at him, and Booker snorts for the fist that jabs him in the side. Then Russell is sitting up to shrug his shirt the rest of the way off and Booker stretches his arms up toward the ceiling, watching because he can.

   Russell's shirt lands on his stomach and Booker flashes a smile before he grabs the offering and uses it to scrub the mess off his stomach. He rolls on his side to toss the dirtied shirt in the direction of the door and stays there when he feels a hand settle on his back, gentle pressure between his shoulder blades. Fingers splay, move up then down, following his spine, and Booker turns his head enough to look back at Russell where he's propped up on one elbow close behind.

   Russell's managed to get his shoes off while Booker tidied himself up, he notices, and he's tempted to help him out of those pants, but he's more tempted to stay right where he is and let Russell's wandering hand keep up whatever it's currently doing. In the end it's gentle pressure against his shoulder blade prompting him to lie flat that makes the decision for him, and Booker scoots away from the edge of the bed, dragging a pillow down to make himself comfortable, stretched on his stomach.

   Russell moves a little closer, sits up enough that he can get both hands on Booker's shoulders, and when he digs in with the heels of his hands Booker groans, half laughing, into his pillow.

   A chuckle answers him and Booker turns his face just enough to look back at Russell from the corner of his eye as hands sweep down toward his waist, fingers little points of pressure along his spine.

   "You've got a nice back," Russell says with a half shrug, and he laughs when Booker's eyebrow slides up, hands pressing into the muscles just below his waist. "You want me to stop?"

   He grinds the heels of his hands into Booker's lower back as he says it and Booker takes the time to mutter a "hell no" before he just shuts his eyes and groans.

   He should really get going. Russell's weight shifts and Booker moves his knees apart, bending one to the side to give the other man room to settle in behind him. He should _really_ get going, but Russell's hands sweep up again and slide all the way into his hair, fingers soothing along his scalp, and instead of getting up he just sighs and relaxes into the mattress.

   Warm breath high on his back and Russell's mouth brushes the base of his neck, leads a trail of kisses toward his jaw and Booker turns his head so Russell's little journey ends properly. He leaves his arms under the pillow, content to let Russell thread fingers through his hair and kiss him til his eyes slide closed. Something cool touches his hip and he realizes Russell's got his little bottle in one hand, the other wandering down his back to rest at his hip.

   "Can I?" Russell nearly whispers, and it's spoken against the shell of Booker's ear, warm breath making him shiver. "It's all right if you're tired, I just..."

   Booker cracks an eye open and looks back at the other man, and Russell's watching him with that look of open want that keeps doing interesting things to very specific parts of Booker, so it's easy to let his mouth tilt in a crooked smile, to lift his hips just enough that Russell's interest is felt very clearly pressed against his lower back.

   "I'm not tired," Booker drawls, and Russell's fingers flex at his hip, throat working as he swallows and nods.  
  
   "Just... stay like that," Russell is saying, and Booker mostly ignores him because the hand stroking his back feels sinfully good, so he just hums and closes his eye again. "You look so good like-- Just stay there, let me..."

   Booker could laugh, but it would probably ruin the mood, so he just lifts his hips in invitation.

   "It's all right if you're tired," Russell, still talking for some reason, goes on, "because you're..."

   Screw the mood. Booker cranes his neck to shoot a look over his shoulder. "If you say 'old'--"

   Sheepish, Russell flashes a smile. "Old... er?"

   "Don't make me go sit with the cat," Booker grates, and Russell has the sense to look abashed before he leans forward to press his mouth to Booker's shoulder.

   "Not old," Russell says, placating, and Booker mutters something indecent as he settles into the pillow again. "I mean, older than _me_ , but--"

   Booker kicks him in the leg and Russell utters a startled laugh, but then his hands are sliding up Booker's thighs and maybe they can settle this up later. The cat's probably not very good company anyway.

   Russell's hands disappear as he works the bottle and Booker watches him sidelong, watches Russell's hand slide up the length of his own cock, slick with oil. Russell looks up and meets his eye as if by accident and Booker just grins in that disarming way that always makes Russell falter. And he does, a little hitch in his movement, but then he's crawling forward to cover Booker once again and Booker's twisting his head around to meet him when he descends for a kiss.

   Booker lifts his hips by degrees and Russell takes the invitation with a measured roll of his own, using his hand to line himself up for that first perfect thrust and Booker groans into the mouth covering his, hands fisting in the sheets beneath his pillow as he rocks back to meet the drive of Russell's hips. One long slide, so easy after earlier, all slick heat, ache and stretch that steal his breath and leave him a little dizzy.

   Russell's face finds the side of his neck, breath coming in short huffs where he nuzzles below Booker's ear, and he's a pleasant weight, chest pressing into Booker's back, supporting himself on his elbows and caging Booker in. For all his teasing they are both of them tired, and Russell's pace is languid and thorough. Booker turns his face against the pillow and lets his eyes slide shut, bracing off his knees and chest to move with Russell, to take each plunge as deep as possible.

   Russell leads and Booker lets him, uses the pillow to muffle his ragged breath, lets Russell fill the gaps with muttered praise and panted encouragement. A touch at his hip and he lifts enough for Russell to reach beneath him, and he's barely hard and much too sensitive but the hand that closes around his cock is so good his eyes roll up and he catches the edge of the pillowcase between his teeth.

   Russell falters, bumps the bridge of his nose against Booker's jaw as his pace slows. "You're not..." Breathless concern, hesitation, but Booker's response is lost to a hiss when that hand between his legs becomes a little more helpful than he can handle at the moment. He sags in relief when Russell's grip loosens, and there's suddenly quick kisses raining down across his shoulder, almost apologetic. "Should I stop?"

   Definitely apologetic, and Booker's shaking his head immediately. "Nuh- No, I'm- I'm fine, what you're doing, I'm fine," he says, and it might be a little slurred but he's talking into a pillow and he can't really blame himself at the moment. "Don't stop, I want..." Thoughts scattered, he makes a frustrated sound and pushes up and back, earning a startled little gasp from Russell, hands squeezing at his waist. "Don't stop," he says again, and this time when Russell's mouth finds his shoulder it's with careful teeth and tongue, a whimper barely audible caught in his throat, and Booker doesn't bother to stifle a moan for the roll of Russell's hips.

   Made pliant by exhaustion, Booker doesn't complain when Russell's arm belts around his waist, takes to supporting his hips for him. The mattress dips where Russell's other hand is braced at his left, arm just touching his side, and Booker is distracted by the brush of skin each time Russell rocks them both.

   Curled over him, Russell's head rests at the crook of his shoulder, and Booker shivers despite the heat rolling off of him, surprises himself when he draws a hand from beneath the pillow to reach up and thread his fingers through Russell's hair. Surprises Russell too, if his gasp and the jerk of his hips are anything to go by, and Booker's mouth opens against the pillow but he doesn't make a sound.

   It's quiet after that, Russell's murmuring voice and mingled gasps and sighs. When Russell's hand fists against his stomach, when his pace becomes uneven and his teeth find Booker's shoulder, Booker just tilts his hips up and curls his fingers into blonde hair. And when Russell shudders, pins him down, pushes deep and holds there, Booker rides it out with him, his groan muffled in the pillow and Russell's a throaty rumble against his back.

   Russell falls against him and Booker offers no complaint, lets himself drift while Russell breathes against his skin, and it's open-mouthed kisses on his back and hands smoothing in long strokes up and down his sides that lull and ultimately do him in.

   Booker wakes to sunlight streaming through the window and hitting him full in the face. He also wakes alone in someone else's bed, which he discovers once he's done cursing and has sat himself up to let his eyes adjust.

   At some point while he was sleeping the blanket's been flipped over double from the side of the bed he doesn't occupy and he shuffles it off of him to swing his legs over the side and get his feet on the floor. He is then immediately reminded of all the fun he'd had before ending up passed out by the ache that settles in his ass, lower back, and then pretty much every other part of him.

   The walk to the bedroom door is a wretched affair. He all but stumbles into the living room, and the first thing he notices is that his clothing has been gathered up and folded in a stack on the end table next to the couch. The second thing he notices is that Russell Everett apparently does not own a wall clock.

   "It's a little after one," Russell offers, and Booker's head snaps up reflexively to look in his direction. Russell's got him beat in the clothing department again, if only by a pair of slacks, since he's seen fit to go without shirt and shoes. He's propped against the wall leading to the kitchen, and Duchess is perched across the line of his shoulders. Booker and the cat regard each other for a moment of mutual animosity before his attention shifts to Russell once more.

   Russell's sporting a crooked grin, and it doesn't take Booker long to notice he's not looking at anything on eye level.

   "Afternoon to you, too," Booker says, making for his clothes, and Russell barks a laugh and steps away from the wall. Booker's managed to get his pants on if not buttoned when a plate is shoved into his hands and he blinks at it like he's been handed a rattlesnake before shooting a look at Russell, because three rounds before noon is one thing, but the man's made him a sandwich.

   "Where've you been all my life?" Booker asks flatly, and Russell snorts a startled laugh as Booker props himself against the back of the couch, shoving half the sandwich in his mouth with one hand and fighting to get his shoes on with the other.  
  
   Booker is only slightly offended by the tone. "I'm supposed to be meeting a girl," he says, which is... sort of the truth, and it earns a very pointed look from Russell.

   "Not to cast aspersion on your prowess, Mister DeWitt--"

   "-- Booker--"

   "-- _Booker_ , but I don't think you'll be ready for another _meeting_ til you've had a bit more of a nap."

   Booker, thick as he feels, just stares for the span of seconds and then squawks something that might be a curse. "Not like that!"

   Russell's laughing at him again even as he helps Booker into his vest, and he snatches up Booker's neck tie quick as a viper. "'Course not," he says, and Booker glares as Russell finishes his task and flattens out the front of his shirt. "Didn't mean to keep you so long," he goes on, and then, grinning again, adds, "Not that I'm apologizing. And feel free to drop by any time you like."  
  
   Booker's brows slide up and then his mouth tilts in something close to a smirk, which Russell returns with a toothy grin. "I'll remember the invitation," he says, and Russell's hand flattens against the center of his chest.   

   "See that you do," Russell says easily, and then he leans up to meet Booker when he ducks his head for a kiss, and maybe it's a little distracting, because when he goes to slide an arm around Russell's neck Duchess shrieks and the pair of them end up shouting obscenities when she takes off, leaving Russell's shoulders and Booker's arm marked with her displeasure.

   Booker goes after that, because he's bound to end up sidetracked if he doesn't, and Russell chases him out with another open invitation, should he find himself in the area. Booker decides to remember it, just in case, though the odds are slim. Maybe someday.

   He has to shield his eyes when he steps out once again into the streets of Columbia, sun dazzlingly bright. If he looks back it's brief, and only once, because in the distance he can see the looming silhouette of Monument Island, and he squints into the sun as he steps off the curb.


End file.
